


Four Sundays

by amscray_punk



Series: Four Sundays [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amscray_punk/pseuds/amscray_punk
Summary: Four times Spot and Race met by accident, and one time they didn't.
Relationships: Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Four Sundays [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838668
Comments: 49
Kudos: 98





	1. I Gotta Be Either Dead or Dreamin'

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! So I’ve been kicking this story around for a little bit, and it just won’t leave me alone so, here it is. Well, part of it. I’ve planned five chapters for this, although the last two are more like two parts of the same chapter. You’ll see. I love the format of “four times they + one time they” and it fits well for what I want this to be. Oh! It was also inspired by this tumblr post https://aristosachaionofficial.tumblr.com/post/119719926852/omg-but-au-where-patroclus-is-a-nurse-and-achilles and if you haven’t read The Song of Achilles, do it but don’t come for me when you finish it. This is a modern AU, set in 2020, although not the COVID-19 hellscape 2020. A perfect utopia 2020 where Sprace are flirting and happy. Mostly. Rating for language. Alright enough rambling, I hope you enjoy! (And if you do please let me know!)

It all happened so fast.

That morning, like most other Sunday mornings, Race shuffled into the tiny kitchen in his tiny apartment in search of caffeine and sustenance. Dimly, he noted that the sink was empty of dirty dishes – an outright miracle, to be frank – and concluded that, although out of character, his friend and roommate must have put them away the night before. At this, Race paused; his brain, still working through morning fog, couldn’t comprehend the idea of Jack Kelly performing _any_ chore without at least three reminders. Well, Race called them reminders, Jack referred to them as “nagging.” Tomato, to-mah-to. As Race only recalled one distinct reminder, the empty sink and relatively clean counter – all twenty four inches of it – came as a welcome surprise.

He should have expected it, really. Running on autopilot, he made his way to the counter, filled the electric kettle with water, and turned it on; ground some coffee beans, poured them into the French press to await their fate. Poured the near-boiling water over the grounds and set a timer on his watch; pressed the plunger down as the timer went off, deeply inhaling the tantalizing scent of perfectly-brewed (his words) coffee. His eyes were still half closed when he reached up, opened the cupboard to choose a mug, and was greeted by a large glass bowl sliding out, directly at his face. It all happened so _fast._

“What the f-“ Race barely had time to react as he took in the sight of an entire sink’s worth of dishes tumbling out of the cupboard and crashing to the floor.  
  


_Thunk._

The world went black.

The next time Race opened his eyes, he was moving. No, wait – he was lying still, but he was in a moving vehicle, an ambulance, to be specific. Disoriented and hazy with pain, he threw his arms out to push himself up –

“Oh, no, you don’t,” came a familiar voice from near his knees. With difficulty, Race focused his gaze on Jack, sitting next to his gurney in a worn T-shirt and faded plaid pajama pants, brown hair sticking slightly up on one side. His green eyes cast a sharp contrast to his appearance, as they were wide and alert; Race could see relief flooding through them, now. “’Scuse me, miss... paramedic?” The medic glanced at Jack, followed his hand gesture with her eyes, and gently pushed Race back into a lying position. Jack sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

“Jack, what the hell?” Race meant for it to come out accusingly, but he just sounded groggy. Disjointed. The paramedic was prodding at him, adding to his discomfort. The light streaming through the windows was terribly bright, and his eyes fluttered closed again as he laid back down.

“I’m so sorry, Race,” came Jack’s reply, and even in his bleary state, Race could tell he meant it. “I don’t know what happened! I woke up to this loud ass noise – sorry, miss –“ (the medic rolled her eyes) “and I ran into the kitchen and you were on the floor, dishes all around ya, and you were knocked out and bleeding and I just-“ he broke off, panting slightly. Race chanced a look through one eye and felt his heart soften, just a bit. Regardless of who had caused the fiasco – Jack, clearly – Race knew he’d never expected this, and was feeling the effects of his mistake.

“M’fine, Jack,” Race mumbled, though he didn’t _feel_ fine. His head was pounding, he could feel dried blood on his forehead and the movement of the ambulance was making him queasy. It was all coming back to him: the dishes, stacked haphazardly in the cupboard, the offending glass bowl, barreling toward his face, the impact and the unceremonious thud with which he had hit the floor. _Damn it, Jack._ The ambulance stopped a moment later and the doors were flung open, allowing more bright morning sunlight to flood in. “Fuck,” he groaned, lifting his arm to block some of the light. “You didn’t have to call 911, Jackie. How the hell am I going to afford this?” Distantly, he was aware Jack couldn’t afford it either – they were both university students with part-time jobs, after all.

Jack groaned, following Race’s gurney at a jog as he was wheeled into the emergency room. “What was I supposed to do, huh? You weren’t waking up and there was blood and-“

Race cut him off with a wave of his hand, keeping his eyes squeezed shut as they moved. The motion sickness hadn’t yet subsided and Jack’s panic was evident in the volume of his voice. “S’fine. We’ll figure it out.” Once he felt the bed stop moving, he cautiously opened his eyes and reached out, brushing Jack’s shoulder. Jack’s worried eyes found his at once. Race gave him a weak smile and a light shove. “Thank you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He huffed out a breath, closing his eyes again and leaning back into the pillow. Talking was hard when it made his head throb like that. “I’m sure you were scared. I would have been, too.”

Race felt Jack’s muscles relax under his hand and he dropped it to his side, resisting the urge to reach up and touch his forehead again. He forced his eyes back open as he felt his consciousness threaten to slip away again. A shiver ran through him and it was only then that he realized he hadn’t yet put on a shirt. He had, at least, managed to be wearing black gym shorts. He moved a little further under the thin blanket, watching as a nurse in pale blue scrubs approached him with what looked to be antiseptic wipes. He heard her speaking but couldn’t make himself focus on the words. She dabbed at his eyebrow -

“Fuck!” He hissed before he could stop himself, instantly regretting his outburst but _fuck_ that stung. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

“Don’t worry about it,” She chuckled, waving away his concerns. “Happens all the time. And yeah,” she paused before continuing in a low tone, “these things hurt like a bitch. Hold still, I’m almost done.”

Race complied, focusing on holding his body still while she finished her torture. Instead he glared at Jack, who was suddenly very interested in an infographic poster on the wall. When she finished, she rewarded him with a sip of ice water before setting the cup on the stand near Jack. After a few basic questions – what’s your name, who’s this guy, what year is it – and Race’s answers – “Ra- Tony, yes I’m sure,” “Dunno, he followed me here - I’m joking, he’s my roommate, sorry,” “20…20? Yeah, for sure,” – the nurse filled out some spots on the form and made to leave.

“Alright, Mr. Higgins, a doctor will be in to see you shortly.” She trained her eyes on Jack, who recoiled only slightly. “Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep until after the doctor has cleared him.” She left.

Almost on cue, Race’s eyelids began to droop, and hey, the hospital bed wasn’t too terribly uncomfortable-

“Uh-uh, I don’t think so, _Mistah Higgins,_ ” Jack’s loud voice cut through Race’s brain fog like a shard of glass – appropriate, at least – and he dragged his eyes open. He glared at his friend, who, truthfully, looked far too smug to have been the culprit behind this whole incident. Maybe that was just his face.

Mercifully, the doctor arrived a short time later; Sunday mornings are apparently the time to hit up the emergency room with a minor injury. Race was starting to feel a bit more coherent, which was good, but the throbbing pain was definitely still present. And the lights were just _too_ bright for comfort. The doctor asked him similar basic questions, shined a flashlight in his eyes and tested his ability to track a pen with his eyes. Satisfied, she scribbled some notes onto the chart and informed Race that he had a mild concussion. He would need to avoid strenuous activity for a few days, but he would be allowed to sleep when he got home, since there didn’t appear to be any serious damage.

“We’ll get you something for the pain, and a nurse will come and take care of that cut on your eyebrow,” she added, motioning toward Race.

“Do I need stitches?” Race asked, his voice a touch higher than usual. Certain injuries, he was prepared to deal with. Having been a dancer from his youth, Race was used to your sprains and fractures. But something about being stitched up like a rag doll gave him the heebie-jeebies.

“Nah,” the doctor waved away his concern, still not looking up from the chart. “Liquid stitches will work fine, and it’ll leave less of a scar.”

Race felt, rather than saw, Jack tense at his side. As the doctor left, Race reached out and poked him hard in the shoulder. “What?”

“What?” Jack asked innocently, not meeting Race’s eyes but rather settling them on the now clean cut. Race huffed.

“You know what. What’s wrong with liquid stitches? They sound way better than-” he waved his hands around in front of him, frustration building as the word ‘traditional’ hovered just out of his reach, “-regular ones,” he finished lamely.

“Oh, no, yeah, they are. Definitely less hassle, less Frankenstein-“

“-Frankenstein was the _doctor_ -“

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack rolled his eyes, pulling his phone from his pocket and fixing his attention on the screen. Race barely heard him mumble, “stings a _hell_ of a lot more, though…”

Race groaned, letting his head fall backward a little too quickly and closing his eyes again. _I just wanted coffee,_ he thought glumly. Now he was lying in the emergency room, surely racking up a ridiculous bill, for something that _could_ have been a trip to the pharmacy. Wonderful. Race had just begun to feel reality slipping away again when a new voice came into the room.

“Hey there, Anthony,”

His eyes snapped open. Only his mother called him Anthony, and his combative, instinctual reaction was apparently intact even when concussed. There was a fleeting moment where he realized Jack had _told_ them his full name. But then his gaze focused on the new arrival, and the scathing insult he’d prepared died in his throat.

Maybe it was the concussion. Maybe it was the bright, almost psychedelic effect of the lighting. Maybe it was Jack’s fault. _Yeah, let’s go with that._ But in that moment, Race was sure he had laid eyes on the most beautiful man he’d ever seen.

The nurse who had called him by his birthname was also dressed in pale blue scrubs, but the short sleeves hugged his toned biceps and complemented his tanned, olive skin in a way Race wouldn’t have imagined possible. His hair was so dark it was almost black, or maybe it was black, but it was thick and neatly styled and Race couldn’t help but imagine running his fingers through it. It would be soft, silky-

His thoughts were interrupted by Jack loudly clearing his throat, and Race silently thanked him. He managed to snap his jaw closed just in time for the nurse to look up from his chart. Holy fuck, were his eyes actually _twinkling_?

He was losing it.

“Anthony?” the nurse said again, concern touching his voice this time. “How are you feeling?”

“F-fine,” Race stuttered, cursing the heat that rushed up his neck and into his cheeks. Jack’s amusement was palpable and he gritted his teeth. “Actually, I go by Tony. Well, technically, I go by Race-“

“-or Racetrack,” Jack supplied, gleefully. It wasn’t often that he got to watch Race falter in front of a guy. He was usually much smoother, although Jack would _never_ admit that to him.

“Hey,” Race leveled Jack with a dark look, “Racetrack was my father. _You_ can call me Race. And you,” his voice took on a playful quality as he turned back to the gorgeous nurse. “can call me Racer.”

“Man of many names, huh?” The nurse quipped before looking back down at the chart. _You can call me Racer? What the hell was that?!_ he screamed internally, cursing himself, Jack, the hospital, the nurse, the concussion, all of it. The nurse cleared his throat softly before continuing.

“Well, it looks like you’re gonna be out of here pretty soon. I have some pain meds for you,” he reached for the tray that Race hadn’t noticed him set on the counter and handed him a small plastic cup of pills. Race gulped them gratefully, willing the pulsing pain to recede so he could _think_. He vowed not to make a fool of himself again in front of this short, dark, and handsome man. “And you’ll get to sleep when you get home, as long as you have someone to check on you every few hours.”

“You got it, Doc,” Jack said solemnly. The nurse glanced at him before turning back to Race.

“Alright, I’m gonna take care of this cut, here. Just lie back, close your eyes, and try to relax. Try not to move, okay Tony?”

A thrill shot through him at the sound of the nurse’s slightly raspy voice saying his name. His heart was pounding. He refused to look at Jack as he nodded wordlessly and followed directions.

Perhaps Jack was more perceptive than Race gave him credit for, because he suddenly stood, stretched, and gave a huge, fake yawn.

“’Ey, Race, I’m gonna go find us some coffee, ‘kay?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” he replied, peeking out of one eye. “Since mine got interrupted-“

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack’s earlier shame seemed to have evaporated; he seemed positively delighted at this turn of events. _Bastard._

“Jack, wait,” Race called and Jack turned at the curtain, eyebrows raised. “Don’t get hospital coffee, ok? It’s awful. Like, universally.”

The nurse gave a snort and Race looked at him, one corner of his mouth quirking up. _I made him laugh._ The nurse looked up and made eye contact – god, they were beautiful; _dark,_ dark brown and yeah, damn near twinkling – and Race felt his mouth go dry.

“You got it,” Jack replied, turning to leave again when suddenly, the nurse spoke.

“Hey, uh, Jack?”

Jack whirled around, eyebrows raised, if possible, even higher.

“Make sure it’s decaf,” the nurse finished, turning at the affronted noise Race hadn’t meant to let out. Jack gave a salute and whirled through the curtain. Betrayal must have been evident on Race’s face because the nurse let out another small laugh as he readied the liquid stitches for application.

“Sorry, _Racetrack_ ,” Race swore he smirked when he said it, “Caffeine isn’t great for a concussion, so you’ll have to do without for a couple of days. Now, lie back and relax. This won’t take long.”

The nurse was extremely close to him now, leaning over Race’s upper body. He was suddenly hyper aware that he was covered only by a scratchy hospital blanket. He felt his heart speed up again and prayed it was only loud in his head. He closed his eyes and felt warm, gentle fingers on his forehead. Suddenly, his eyes opened.

“Wait!” The nurse moved back slightly, clearly taken aback, but he waited patiently for Race to explain. They locked eyes again and Race felt his nerve fading fast. “What’s your name?”

The nurse cocked his head slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. _Oh god, he has a gap between his teeth._ Race clenched his jaw. _Focus, Tony!_ He was suddenly incredibly grateful for Jack’s absence. When the nurse answered, Race could swear his voice was pitched just a bit lower than before.

“You can call me Sean.”

With that, the nurse – _Sean_ – leaned back over him and got to work.

Jack was not wrong. Liquid stitches hurt worse than the concussion, worse than the gash, worse than any broken bone or torn ligament Race had suffered in his life. It was a sharp, jagged pain, like lemon juice and salt being ground into his open wound.

“ _Motherfucker,_ ” he breathed, reflexively. Sean huffed a small laugh in response; his breath lightly ruffled Race’s unruly curls. Race’s stomach flipped. He was _so close._ He again willed his pulse to slow down to no avail.

“Yeah, this stuff stings,” Sean agreed, mercifully working quickly. “I’ll be done soon, Racer.”

_Racer._ He felt his face flush again and was grateful for Sean’s advice to keep his eyes closed. He could feel the faint heat coming from Sean’s body; could smell his soap. He ground his teeth together as Sean worked.

“So, what happened?”

“Hmm?” Race was taken aback by the question; he was so concentrated on trying not to cry out, he hadn’t been expecting it.

“To your head,” Sean explained. Race had the sense he was trying to distract him, and damn if it wasn’t working. He opened his eyes halfway.

“Jack,” he laughed, softly. Sean smirked.

“He’s a troublemaker, that one.” It wasn’t a question.

“How’d ya know?”

“Just a hunch,” Sean sat back, examining his work intently. Perhaps a little too intently. “What’d he do?”

“He put the dishes away,” Race answered, concentrating on making his voice level. He was beginning to feel a little overstimulated. “But he put them all in the same cupboard, just jammed them in at all sorts of angles. So, when I went to grab my coffee mug this morning…” he held out his palms as if to say, _well, y’know._

“Sounds like you were lucky this is the worst of your injuries,”

“I mean, I was also knocked out, so…” Race sighed. “Isn’t it supposed to be a day of rest?”

“All you wanted was a cup of coffee, huh?” Sean chuckled. Race detected traces of a Brooklyn accent. _I’m doomed._

“Exactly. Is that so much to ask?”

“Definitely not,” Sean agreed. He carefully swiped more adhesive onto Race’s cut. “There ya go, all set.” He leaned back to inspect his handiwork and disposed of his gloves. His eyes dropped just slightly from the cut and locked with Race’s own. Race, struggling to remember how to breathe, looked back. The air began to grow thick.

“Thanks,” Race finally stuttered, breaking the tension as Sean looked away, reaching for a mirror. He held it up so Race could see himself.

“What do ya think?” he asked. Race sucked in a breath at the angry slash just over his left eyebrow. Glistening with the liquid stitches and bright red, it didn’t quite look real. But it did look clean, and he supposed that was the best he could ask for, given the situation. He pointedly ignored his flushed complexion and again cursed his fair skin. What was _wrong_ with him? He couldn’t remember a time he’d been so… affected by someone. Least of all someone he’d just met.

“Well, what do _you_ think?” he heard himself respond. _Oh no, did that sound too flirty? Not flirty enough?_ His head was spinning. Sean didn’t miss a beat.

“Personally,” he replied, resting a hand on his chest – _that broad chest, hell_ – to show his sincerity. “I think it’s some of my best work and you wear it well.”

“Is that so?” Race breathed a laugh. He was fairly certain he was no longer even in control of his actions.

“Yeah. Brings out your eyes,” Sean replied easily, gracing him with a teasing grin. Race opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t yet sure what, when the curtain opened.

_Of course_ Jack chose that moment to make his grand reentrance, drink carrier in hand and the nurse from earlier just behind him. He tipped his imaginary hat to her as a thank you – “I couldn’t remember which room you were in,” – and turned to Race and Sean. The nurse gave Sean a pointed look, so quickly Race was sure he’d imagined it, before she ducked back out of the room.

“Here ya go, Doc,” Jack greeted Sean, pulling a cup out of the carrier and handing it to him. **Hot nurse** was written on it in bold marker, and Race could’ve killed him.

Sean, surprised, accepted the cup with a grateful smile. If he noticed the name, he didn’t react. “Thank you, but I’m not a-“

Jack brushed him off with a wave, handing Race his cup, which read **Racer <3** – he was _going to_ _kill him_ – and Race, grateful for something besides his foot to put in his mouth, drank deeply. It was just a touch too hot, but he didn’t care. The familiar, long overdue flavor was breathing life into him. Or maybe that was the meds.

“So,” Sean spoke, looking for the first time a _little_ off balance. He looked down at the chart again. “You’re to rest for the next few days, no strenuous activity, limited caffeine,” at this he paused, looked up at Race and smirked before continuing, “but you should be feeling better in no time. Trust your body. Over the counter meds should be fine for managing pain and, since we did the liquid stitch, there’s no need for a follow-up unless you’re still feeling bad in a week or so.”

Race refused to acknowledge the disappointment he felt and nodded obediently. He hardly trusted himself to speak anymore.

“No worries, Doc,” Jack told Sean, grinning. “I think Racer, here, would do whatever you asked him to.”

Race fought the urge to snap at his friend and smiled tightly at Sean, nodding one last time. “Thank you.”

Sean smiled warmly and gave half a nod. “My pleasure. Take care.” And with that, he was gone.

Race let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and dropped his head, too quickly. _Ouch._ Jack chuckled.

“Damn, Race,” he began, amusement all over his face as he stared after the nurse. “What was _that_? Are you alright?”

“No, idiot,” Race snarled, no heat behind his words. “I’m concussed.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, we’ll go with that.” Jack drained his cup and tossed it. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen ya that flustered around some dude before. Is this guy the one, or what?”

“Shaddup,” Race groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. Jack chuckled a bit longer than was really necessary.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get you home and in bed, huh?”

Race sighed.

_I am in_ trouble.


	2. We Was Never Meant To Meet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading/commenting/leaving kudos! :D I'm excited to finish this story so hopefully it won't take long. I've got nothing else to say except that, if you're a nurse (or a dancer!) or know one and you're reading this going, "This is inaccurate," just know that... I'm sorry. I've done verrry minimal research because, well, accuracy just doesn't matter much for this story. Hospital scenes are mostly based on real-life experiences and quick Google searches, so. Enjoy!

Race couldn’t focus.

It had been two weeks since his encounter with Hot Nurse Sean, as he was affectionately known in his and Jack’s apartment. He’d had plenty of opportunity to replay the events over in his mind, which all but confirmed one thing: he could never set foot in that hospital again.

Ever.

“C’mon, Race,” Jack had tried to reason with him. “You weren’t that bad. You were concussed! Hell, I’ve behaved worse than that in hospitals _sober_ and still walked outta there with a date.” Seeing that this had clearly not helped, he’d even tried dropping his playful air. “You’re really not gonna go back and talk to him?”

“And say what?” Race had snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “’Hey, I know we only met that one time when I was your patient and I know you gave _no_ indication whatsoever that you liked me, or even that you like guys but wanna go out anyway?’ Ugh,” he grunted. “No way. Not a chance.”

After a week or so, Jack had given up. But Race still couldn’t focus.

It was Saturday night, summer in the city, and where was Race? Rehearsal. Yes, classes were out for the summer, but he was heading into his senior year that fall and wanted to pad his resume as much as he could, so he was participating in a couple of summer workshops held by his school, Denton College of the Arts. And frankly, he was kicking ass. He had a bit of an advantage, being an upperclassman, but he was proud of his progress and work ethic. Not to mention the effects it had on his physique; his abs had never been this defined. He threw himself into rehearsal with everything he had, and it definitely had nothing to do with a certain healthcare worker.

Nope. Not at all.

And so it came as quite a shock to him when, toward the end of rehearsal, he landed a jump rather awkwardly and white-hot pain shot from his ankle to his hip. He hadn’t realized he’d been picturing Sean’s grin in his mind until the image was wiped away by pain.

He dropped to the ground, immediately cradling his left ankle.

“Oh my God!” Tommy cried.

“Race are you okay?!” shouted Charlie.

“Yo, I heard a pop!” Albert called, earning a smack in the chest from Charlie.

Concerned dancers crowded him; he waved them off, grimacing. When Race didn’t immediately jump back up, the instructor called rehearsal for the day; the rest began to gather their things to head home. The only one he allowed to get close was his friend Katherine, another junior (well, senior, now). She was easily the smartest of his friends, and that included her boyfriend and Race’s roommate, Jack. She gingerly peeled his hands back to get a look at his ankle. He chanced a look at her face and wished he hadn’t; she looked faintly green at the edges and quickly turned her gaze away.

“It’s swelling pretty fast, Race,” she spoke softly, not wanting to upset him any further. “Maybe we should get you to the hosp- “

“No,” he interrupted, more forcefully than he’d meant to. Seeing her shocked face, he softened. “Sorry. No, I don’t think I need to go the hospital. It’s probably just twisted,” but even as the words left his mouth, he knew he was wrong. He’d had twisted ankles and he’d had sprained ankles. The pain alone told him he’d be stupid to forgo medical attention.

“You’re sure?” she looked skeptical. _Smart girl._

“I’m sure,” he unfolded his long limbs, taking extra care with his “twisted” ankle. “Can you just take me home?” She nodded and stood up, extending her hand to him. Accepting it, he stood up on his right leg and experimentally set his left foot down to test it. He managed to put a small amount of weight on the ball of his foot and thus hopped, one arm draped over Katherine’s shoulders, outside so she could hail them a cab.

Once home, Jack fussed over him worse than his mother ever had. He made sure Race showered (offering minimal privacy), ate, and settled into his bed with his ankle propped on a pillow and topped with an ice pack. His bedside table was stocked with pain meds, water, and snacks. Race thought it was a bit overkill, but sweet. After all, it was only twisted.

But here, in his room alone, he allowed himself to look down at his ankle for the first time since the injury. _Fuck._ It was not twisted; it was swollen and bruised, and the minimal amount of weight he’d been able to bear had decreased rapidly. It was sprained, at the least, and fractured, at the worst. Common sense told him he needed to be seen by a doctor. But what would happen if he were also _seen_ by a certain nurse? He groaned, covering his face with his hands. Sean would think he was a psychopath, willing to injure himself just to see him. He couldn’t have that. He wouldn’t.

Instead, he popped ibuprofen like candy and willed his ankle to heal overnight. Everything was going to be fine.

He didn’t sleep well.

It’s tough to sleep with your foot propped precariously on a pile of pillows, balancing a melting ice pack. He couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t get to sleep, and once he finally did, he couldn’t stay that way. Eventually, around 4am, he gave up and spent the remaining hours munching on the snacks and watching The Office on Netflix.

Jack woke up a few hours later and came to check on him, but something had changed. He was no longer passively accepting Race’s refusal for medical care; no, he came into his room with a purpose.

“Oh good, you’re up,” Jack said brightly. Too brightly. “Ah, you look like hell.”

Race stared dully. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, that’s probably because your ankle is way worse than you let on,” Jack replied simply. He cast a glance toward Race’s exposed ankle and grimaced.

“How would you even know?”

“Katherine,” said Jack, who was now pulling the covers off him, earning a surprised noise and a glare from Race. _Should’ve known._

“Wait, what are you do- “

“What’s it look like?” Jack looked at him, annoyed. “Taking you to the hospital.” He paused. “Again.”

“Jack, no- “

“No arguing,” There was more force behind his words than Race would have expected. Surprised, he let his mouth fall shut. For a moment.

“But what about- “

“About what?” Jack challenged, all but hauling Race out of his bed with one arm.

“You know _what,_ ” Race growled in response as he hopped to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

“What, Sean? So what if you see him?”

“HegoninkI’mcrashe,” he muttered around his toothbrush. Jack leaned in the doorway, eyes twinkling.

“Come again?”

Race glared as he finished up, then leaned against the counter, sighing. “He’s gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Race, if this guy thinks you faked that- “ He pointed at Race’s ankle, “to see him, then he’s got a bigger ego than I do. And there just isn’t room in your life for that. So,” he grabbed Race’s cologne and spritzed him with it before Race could stop him. Then he clapped his hands once and grabbed Race’s arm, throwing it over his shoulder and making their way to the front door. “Let’s go, Romeo,”

“You’re far too happy about all of this,” Race groaned. Jack cackled.

And so, for the second time in less than a month, Race found himself in the emergency room. This time, though, he had the added pleasure of sitting in the waiting room, trying his best to ignore the stinging pain. He filled out his own paperwork this time, clearly printing **Tony** on the first name line. After he hobbled to the triage nurse and back to his seat, he only had to wait a short time before a somewhat familiar voice called his name.

His head snapped up and he saw the same female nurse from his last visit, smiling warmly at him. His cheeks burned with embarrassment; hell, they were all going to think he was insane. Or klutzy. As a dancer, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

She helped him back to a room and onto the lumpy bed. Jack followed, not-so-subtly looking down every hallway. Race caught him, and he looked innocently toward the ceiling, beginning to whistle softly. Race sighed. This was a recipe for disaster, he was sure of it.

The nurse – Sam, Race noted, glancing at her name badge – sat on the stool near his bed and examined his ankle. “Okay, Mr. Higgins, tell me what happened,”

“Please, call me Race,” Race had such a fight-or-flight response tied to hearing his last name in connection with the word ‘mister.’ “And, uh, I landed on it badly.” When she looked up at him with eyebrows raised, he continued, “I’m a dance student at Denton.”

“Ah,” She nodded, knowingly. She scribbled something on his chart and gingerly poked his ankle. Race hissed but said nothing. “So you’re no stranger to this type of injury.”

“No ma’am,” he replied, eyes on the ceiling.

“And how’s your pain level?”

“S’not so bad,” Race shrugged, surprised to find he was telling the truth. His pain had subsided to a dull throb, easy enough to ignore. He looked back at Sam. “What do you think?”

“Well, I think it’s likely sprained, but we’ll need to do an X-ray to rule out a fracture,”

Race nodded. That was reasonable. _But expensive._ He was going to have to work the rest of the summer to make a dent in these hospital bills. Although, Jack had done the dishes every single time since The Incident, and he’d done them correctly, so Race supposed it wasn’t a total loss.

“Hang tight,” Sam said to him, standing up to leave. “I’ll get someone to take you down to radiology soon.” Race nodded as she left and dropped his head back onto the pillows. He heard Jack moving and looked up, frowning.

“What are you doing?”

Jack didn’t answer; just walked to the curtain and threw it wide open.

“Jack!”

“What?”

“The hell are you d- “ He stopped abruptly as his eyes were drawn away almost automatically. He was turned away from Race, but Sean’s silhouette was unmistakable. He watched him for a moment, not breathing. Race realized too late that Sean was headed to _his_ room. He hadn’t yet caught his breath when Sean swept into the room, chart in hand and a teasing grin on his face.

“Hey uh, you know we don’t give out frequent flyer miles here, right?”

Jack barked a laugh. Race flushed, focusing his eyes a little lower on Sean’s face. He couldn’t handle direct eye contact just yet. His sudden proximity, coupled with the fact that Race was seeing him clearly for, really, the first time, was too much. Distantly, he realized Jack had dragged him out of the house without coffee again.

“Must’ve missed the memo,” Race replied sheepishly, shooting a quick glare at his friend. “I wouldn’t even have come, if Jack hadn’t physically carried me here.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s probably just a sprain, anyway.”

Sean nodded, getting a closer look at the ankle. To his credit, he didn’t grimace or balk. _He’s a professional,_ Race reminded himself. _He’s just doing his job._

“It might be, but we gotta rule out a break,” Sean trained his dark eyes on Race again. _Goddamnit,_ Race cursed to himself, unable to tear his own eyes away. “I’d hate for it to heal wrong and cause long-term problems.”

“Yeah, we can’t have that,” Jack interjected, beaming. He nudged Race’s shoulder. “Our little Racer here is an aspiring choreographer and one hell of a dancer. Ain’t that right, Race?”

Sean looked up, eyebrows quirked in interest. “Is that so?”

Race flushed. Again. “Yeah,” he stammered, throat dry. “I’m a j- well, I’ll be a senior this fall.”

“Where?” Sean actually seemed interested. Race noted, for the first time, a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. _Holy shit._

“Denton,”

“Wow,” Now he looked impressed. “Then let’s get you down to radiology, stat. I won’t have a promising career ruined on my account.” There went those eyes again, sparkling. _Did he just wink at me?_ Race had to remind himself to breathe. _Fuck._

Sean ducked out of the room to fetch a wheelchair. Race pointedly ignored Jack, who was grinning ear to ear, his eyes drilling holes in the side of Race’s head. To his credit, though, he said nothing, even when Sean returned a moment later and took Race’s hand to help him into the wheelchair. Race felt his face burn again; this was probably the most humiliated he had ever been in front of a crush. Because, yeah, he could admit it, now. He _definitely_ had a crush on Sean Conlon (he’d peeked at his name badge earlier and definitely was not going to Google him later, nope).

“Alright, have fun you crazy kids!” Jack called as Sean began to wheel him away.

“Coffee!” Race shouted back. Jack made a kissy face and disappeared in the direction of the waiting room.

Above him, he heard Sean chuckle and chanced a glance upward.

“What’s funny?”

“You really like your coffee, huh?” At that, Race smiled.

“Yeah, I guess so,” He hadn’t really thought about it much but Sean was right; his days never felt like they really started until he’d had his first cup. “Don’t you?”

“Sure,” Sean agreed. “But more as a survival tool, y’know?”

Race laughed softly. “I mean, I also work part-time at a coffee shop, so,” he shrugged.

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“Jacobi’s. Not far from here, actually,” Race realized as he said it; was that where Jack had gone last time? His brain wouldn’t allow him to recall what the cups had looked like.

“No way,” Sean said as they rounded a corner and waited for the elevator. “I go there all the time.”

Race’s head snapped up. “You do?” He opened his mouth a couple of times, no words coming out. “When?” he asked, lamely. “I’ve never seen you there.” _And I would have remembered you._

“I’ve never seen you there, either,” Man, this guy didn’t miss a beat.

“Huh,” It seemed to be all Race could say. His head was spinning. Why was his head always spinning? “I guess we’ve just missed each other.”

“Well it looks like we’re making up for lost time, now,” Race could hear the smile in Sean’s voice as they reached the radiology department. Sean bowed out as the technician took over the X-ray process. When he was done, Sean wheeled him back to his room to await the results. Race wondered why he was still there; surely he had more patients to attend. But he wasn’t going to complain. The conversation had given way to a comfortable quiet; neither felt the need to make small talk as Race settled back onto the bed and Sean propped his foot up with pillows. A moment later, Sean spoke.

“Can I ask you something?”

_Gulp._

“Sure,” Race’s voice shook only slightly. He couldn’t bring himself to look Sean directly in the eye. He somehow looked so much hotter than Race remembered; perhaps because he was fully in focus, this time. Jack was still gone.

“What kind of a name is Racetrack, anyway?”

Whatever he’d been expecting, that wasn’t it. A laugh escaped Race before he could stop it; the delighted look on Sean’s face at having provoked the laugh was not missed by him. His chest felt warm.

“Well, ah,” he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to decide where to begin. “I’ve always had a lot of energy,”

“All the coffee?” Sean smirked. Race finally made eye contact and felt his heart skip a beat.

“For sure,” he agreed. “So my mom was always signing me up for classes and sports to help burn through it. Dance, gymnastics, baseball, although I was never good at that,” he paused, shaking his head slightly to rid himself of _those_ memories. He’d embarrassed himself enough in front of Sean. “But I’d always wanted to just _run._ So, finally, in middle school, I started running. First cross-country, then track. And I just _loved_ it so much. Still do, actually,” he paused, surprised by how much he’d shared. A moment of panic; surely Sean was bored by now. But when he looked up again, Sean was watching him intently. _Deep breath._ “Basically, I got the name Racetrack because I’m fast and my friends are not creative.” He finished, shrugging halfheartedly. Sean outright laughed at that one.

“Boy, do I know that struggle,” At Race’s quirked eyebrow, he continued. “I also have a rather… embarrassing nickname brought on by lack of creativity in loved ones.” When Race stared expectantly, Sean smirked. “Nah… you’re gonna have to work a little harder for that one.”

Race opened his mouth to reply, a smile forming of its own volition. Was Sean _flirting_ with him? He really didn’t want to get his hopes up, but for the life of him he couldn’t think of another way to receive the comment. But before he could speak, Sean reached his hand out toward him and Race froze, hardly daring to breathe.

“What are you…” his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Hold still,” Sean replied, no louder himself. He brushed a stray curl back from Race’s forehead and gently, _so_ gently ran his fingertips over the healed cut. Race shivered, biting his lip as he tried to remain still; the last thing he wanted to do was break this moment. His eyes fluttered closed under Sean’s feather-light touch for just a second before he realized he was missing out on a close-up view of those newly discovered freckles. But just as he allowed himself to look, a doctor pulled back the curtain and waltzed in. Sean quickly got up and busied himself with paperwork, wiping down the counter, anything to look busy. Race could see the flush on Sean’s cheekbones and this time, was sure he hadn’t imagined it. He still had butterflies in his stomach.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with a monotone voice, showed Race the X-ray. It was, miraculously, negative; no fracture. Race heaved a sigh of relief. His entire summer and possibly fall would have been ruined, and he was grateful to have an opportunity to rehab and get back to work. The doctor, who looked bored, told him Sean would explain the treatment plan to him, scribbled a couple things on his chart, and was gone. A moment later, Sam returned with an ankle brace. Race could swear he saw her wink at Sean before she disappeared. He couldn’t believe this was really happening. He’d been so scared to see Sean’s reaction to his presence in the hospital, and now he was alone with him again. Jack was still gone.

“Alright, Racer,” Sean began, sending another jolt through Race. He fitted Race’s foot carefully into the brace, glancing up occasionally to make sure it wasn’t too tight or too loose. _Fuck, he’s perfect._ “Now I know you’re a dancer, so I assume you’ve had to do this before, but…” he trailed off, looking up through those thick eyelashes at Race. He almost seemed to be asking permission.

“Go ahead,” said Race, his voice breathier than he’d intended. _Fuck it._ Adrenaline was making him brave. “I’d like to hear you tell me what to do.” _Shit shit shit._ That had sounded _way_ dirtier than he’d meant for it to and he was terrified to see Sean’s reaction. He forced himself to look anyway. Sean’s dark eyes dropped momentarily to Race’s lips before he seemed to catch himself. Race was suddenly parched. Sean continued hastily, his voice a touch unsteady.

“This should be easy for you to remember, since it’s one letter off from your name,” Race grinned at that. “but we like to use an acronym called RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation.” Race had heard this spiel a thousand times, but it had never sounded this good. Emboldened by Sean’s earlier response, he parted his lips slightly and ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, just to see what would happen. Sean faltered; Race felt like the king of New York. “Y-you’ll want to stay off of it as much as possible and wear this brace when you can. When you can’t, make sure it’s elevated and you’re using ice for ten to twenty minutes at a time, a few times a day.” Sean had clearly given this talk before and Race felt a rush of attraction to him. He was really in for it. “Do you have any questions?”

This was it. Race’s chance. And, _of fucking course,_ Jack chose that moment to return with, once again, three cups of coffee. And indeed, they were from Jacobi’s. Sean’s head whipped around so fast Race was slightly concerned he’d given himself whiplash. _Damn it, Jack._

“’Ey, Doc!” Jack greeted Sean cheerfully, handing him a coffee. Sean brought it to his lips immediately, reminding Race of himself. He smirked. Maybe he wasn’t the only one _affected._ “What’s the verdict?”

“Not broken,” Race informed him, taking a small sip of his own coffee. “Just sprained.”

“That’s great news!” Jack looked relieved. “So he can go?”

“Yep,” Sean replied, picking up Race’s chart for the first time in a while. It almost seemed like he needed a prop, something to keep his hands busy. “Hey, Jack,” he said suddenly, looking up at Race’s friend. “D’you think you could do me a favor?”

“Sure, Doc,”

“Could you go down the hall to the nurse’s station and ask someone to help you find a pair of crutches? Let them know they’re for the patient in room twelve.” Jack saluted him and left. Race’s heartrate picked up again. Sean could have gotten the crutches himself, right? The silence was deafening as he waited for Sean to speak.

“Tony,”

Race sucked in a breath. “Yes?” his reply was soft. Expectant.

“Do you have any questions?”

Race gulped. “About… my ankle?” Sean hesitated, a grin forming, then nodded.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “About your ankle.”

“N-no,” Race stuttered. Where was this going? “I think I’ve got it all.” _Coward._

“Good. If you do think of something, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Race opened his mouth, equal parts terrified and excited, when Jack returned with a pair of shiny metal crutches.

“Okay,” he answered, softly. Jack made his way over to him as Sean started backing away toward the curtain.

“Thanks again, Doc,” Jack gave another silly salute, which Sean returned playfully.

“Anytime,” he replied, turning to leave. He stopped, looking down. “Oh, and Race?”

“Yes?” He hated how eager he sounded, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Jack could suck it.

Sean looked him in the eyes one last time. “Next time, let’s meet outside the hospital, ‘kay?” And with that, he was gone.

What seemed like a full minute went by before Race remembered how to breathe, and Jack had to remind him to close his mouth. “But did you-“ he stuttered as Jack helped him stand up and adjusted the crutches.

“Yes, I heard,” Jack sounded positively gleeful. “Now c’mon, let’s get home so we can start planning your first date.”

It wasn’t until hours later that Race realized he hadn’t asked for his phone number.

_You fucking idiot._


	3. Something To Wake Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii, here's chapter three. I'm sorry, it's kind of short, but I'm editing the final two chapters as we speak so they should be up verrry soon. I will probably post them at the same time, since they're kind of connected. I hope you enjoy and if you do, please let me know! Thank you so much for reading!

Race was tired.

In the week since he had injured his ankle, he’d spent more time at the dance studio and Jacobi’s than he had at home. Normally, he was only in the studio to rehearse for his own pieces. But even though he couldn’t dance, he wanted to be involved, so he was helping Charlie teach a youth class during the week. Obviously, he couldn’t demonstrate, but he was damn proud of the choreography he’d come up with and was thrilled that Charlie was using so much of it. At least he could still put this on his resume. He spent all morning at the studio and all afternoon and most of the evening at the coffee shop. If he couldn’t dance, he could make money. Race never had been one for lying around.

He had spent every shift at Jacobi’s watching out the corner of his eye for Sean to walk through the door, but he never did. Race had started to doubt his memories, his perception; was Sean ever actually flirting with him? Once or twice (or maybe a few more than that, but who’s counting?) he had googled Sean’s name, looking for his social media profiles. But Sean either didn’t have any or they weren’t connected to his real name because try as he might, Race found nothing. It would have been so _easy_ to just follow him on Instagram, maybe work up the courage to send him a message. He’d even made his own Instagram public, in case Sean was looking for him. He also carefully removed old or embarrassing photos from his profile. As the week went on and there was no contact, those decisions made him feel more and more pathetic.

“Ah, Racer,” Jack said, wistfully, as he listened to Race gripe that Saturday evening. “Nothing about love is easy. Don’t you know that?”

“Ugh,” Race had groaned, dropping his phone into his lap. “What am I gonna do, Jack?”

“The way I see it, you have two options,” Jack answered, propping his feet on the coffee table in their small living room. Race wouldn’t even call it a room, really; more of a living space. “You can give up, forget he ever existed, and move on with your life.” He paused. Race blinked at him, wondering why he’d even asked.

“…or?” he supplied when Jack took too long to continue.

“Or!” A grin spread across Jack’s face. “Or you can take your ass down to the hospital-“

“-again-“

“Yes, _again_ , and ask him out.”

“Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Race rolled his eyes. “I can’t do that. That’s creepy. That’s worse than showing up like I did last time.”

“Last time, you mean when your ankle was twice its normal size?”

Race didn’t answer, just stretched his limbs and made to get off the couch. For the most part, he was getting around the house without his crutches, but he still needed them to get to the studio or work. He glanced at his watch, more as an excuse than anything else, and stood up.

“I gotta go to bed,” he explained, not meeting Jack’s eyes. “Got work in the morning.”

“You’re working a Sunday morning?”

“Yeah,” Race answered as he carefully made his way toward the stairs. “I’m working a double shift.”

“Oof,” Jack grunted, settling in to the couch, turned away from him. “Better you than me.”

Race made a noncommittal noise in response and headed upstairs, where he collapsed onto his bed.

He wondered if he’d ever see Sean again.

Race knew he was lucky to have his job at Jacobi’s. He’d worked there on and off since he was a teenager; Jacobi himself was a family friend, and he’d employed several of Race’s friends in that time. Anytime Race wanted to pick up hours, there was always work to be done. Which was how he found himself sitting just behind the partition behind the counter at 6:30 the next morning, foot propped on an empty chair, filling sugar caddies. The Sunday morning crowd was always a little less intense than the weekday crowds, but they had their busy moments. When the rush would pick up, Davey would call him to the front to call out customer orders for pickup at the far end of the counter. But for now he was content just to sit, drink his coffee, and do the grunt work. At least he was getting paid.

He finished the caddies and started glancing around the small stock area – there was another, larger dry stock room in the back – for his next project. He supposed he could check the expiration dates on the condiment bottles on the few tables out front. He had just carefully set his foot down on the ground and begun to stand up when he heard Davey’s frantic footsteps heading toward him.

“Hey,” Davey sounded out of breath as he rounded the corner. Race noticed he looked flushed.

“Hey,” he answered, brows drawing together in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Davey answered, though he sounded anything but. “I just, I’m sorry, Race I know you’re hurt and this is kinda unprof-“

“Spit it out, Jacobs.”

“My sister keeps calling and saying it’s urgent,” Davey huffed. “I’m not sure why she’s even up this ear-“

Race waved him off. “Go. Go on, I can handle the counter.”

“You’re sure?” Race nodded, grabbing one of his crutches. Davey let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Race. Hey, there’s an online order that just came through. If you can finish-“

“Go!” Race cut him off again, heading to the front. Although he was a _little_ worried about getting a rush, he hoped the crutch would be a deterrent for otherwise impatient customers. Maybe he’d even get a tip or two.

A quick glance around the shop revealed it was nearly empty; only an elderly couple sat at a table enjoying a pastry with their decaf coffee. Race rolled his eyes, a small smile on his face. Davey, ever the worrywart. He picked the order ticket off the counter and read it. A large iced mocha with extra shots and extra whipped cream. He let out a low whistle as he began to measure syrup and cold brew into a cup. He couldn’t imagine starting his day with quite _that_ much sugar, but part of his job was to make orders without judgment.

He heard the door open just as he went to set the cup on the far end of the counter. _Perfect timing._

“Large iced mocha for…” he trailed off, looking down at the ticket in his hand.

“Spot?”

Race's heart jumped into his throat; he nearly dropped the cup. _No. No way._ This couldn’t be happening. But even as he refused to believe it, he knew what he would see when he finally looked up.

“Hey, Racer,” Sean stood just on the other side of the pickup counter, grinning at him. Race struggled to catch his breath and he knew he looked like an idiot, standing there, gaping. Finally, muscle memory took over and he extended his arm, handing him the cup.

“Hey,” he replied, voice high with surprise. “What are you doing here?” He wanted to kick himself the second he said it but Sean didn’t seem to mind, grabbing a straw and unwrapping it.

“Just picking up the essentials before I head in to work.” At that, Race noticed Sean was, once again, clad in those light blue scrubs, a messenger bag slung across his chest. Race’s mind began to wander. _I wonder what he looks like in other clothes…_ “I’ve never seen you here on a Sunday morning.”

“Picked up some shifts,” Race replied, a little breathlessly. “What do you mean, essentials?” His eyebrows shot up, looking from the cup to Sean as he put in the straw. “Tell me you don’t have this much sugar every morning?”

“What can I say?” Sean shrugged, making eye contact as he took a long drink. “I got a sweet tooth.” _Damn. Twinkling. Eyes._

Race was speechless; it was far too early for him to handle this. Sean’s bright eyes and coy demeanor were making his knees feel weak. Just then, the ticket machine started printing. Davey was still gone and Race debated ignoring the order in favor of spending one more moment with Sean. Or…

“Wait a minute,” Race’s brain was catching up. “Spot?” His eyes roamed over Sean’s face, trying to memorize every inch of the mischievous look Sean was giving him.

“I told ya we had something in common,” Sean replied, nibbling the end of his straw as he maintained eye contact. Race propped his elbows on the counter and leaned over as much as he could; he was starting to feel like himself again, more in control. He picked up a toothpick from the small container and stuck it between his teeth, feeling a new confidence as he noticed Sean’s distracted gaze land on his lips. He grinned, the newly printed ticket forgotten.

“What kinda name is _Spot,_ anyway?”

Just as Sean started to reply, the front door swung open. Race looked up, horrified, and hurried, as quickly as he could with a bum foot, to the ticket printer. Luckily, it was only a house roast with foamed milk – easy enough – but as he was topping the drink with a lid, he glanced up to see Sean checking his watch. A thrill went through him as he realized Sean had no reason to hang around, other than to see him. Race looked at the clock on the wall and noticed it was nearly 7am; the rush would begin any moment. He passed the cup over the counter, flashing his customer service smile. The customer retreated and Race focused his attention on Sean again.

“I believe,” he drawled, holding the toothpick between his teeth in the corner of his mouth, “You were about to tell me a story.” He looked at Sean expectantly, a twinkle in his own blue eyes, this time.

“Was I?” Sean teased, stirring his drink with the straw. They were leaning toward each other from opposite sides of the pickup counter, oblivious to their surroundings, when a sudden _crash_ startled them both. Race’s head whipped around in the direction of the noise to see Davey stumble out from behind the partition, looking dazed.

His instinct was to run toward his friend, and he only just remembered to grab his crutch first. Torn, he looked back over his shoulder. Sean, Race noticed with a flip of his stomach, was backing toward the door, dark eyes still fixed on Race.

“Looks like that’s a story for another time,” he called, disappointment evident in his voice, before he winked, turned, and walked out the door.

Race had no time to deal with his feelings as he walked quickly over to Davey, who was now bent over the sink, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Davey!” Race was beginning to panic. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay?”

Davey splashed his face with cold water – Race bit back a comment about health code violations – and dried off with a rough paper towel. Seeming to catch his breath, he stood and turned, leaning his back against the counter. “Yeah,” he answered, flustered. “I’m okay. I knocked over a few stacks of boxes, God I hope they weren’t dishes-“ He cut off, panic clear in his eyes again. Race stepped directly in front of him, placing a steadying hand on Davey’s chest and forcing him to look at him.

“Breathe,” Race told him, feeling Davey’s rapid heartrate beginning to slow under his hand. “Tell me what happened. Is your sister okay?”

“She’s…” Davey’s mouth opened and closed a few times, looking a bit like a goldfish. Race waited, noticing the ticket printer had begun again. He reached over and plucked the order, getting it started while Davey was still frozen.

“She’s… glad? Sad. Mad?” Race riffed on a line from one of his favorite movies, _Tank Girl_ , as he made a cappuccino and waited for Davey to come back to reality. “Lonelyyy…”

“She’s pregnant.” Davey finally managed, his voice quiet. Race’s eyebrows disappeared into his blonde curls. He set the drink on the counter and walked back over to Davey.

“Well, that’s great news!” Race told him, grinning widely. Davey finally made eye contact with him.

“Is it?”

“…isn’t it?”

“Race, she’s only twenty-one.” Race blinked.

“And?”

“And!” Davey sputtered, hands in the air. “She’s only a year older than I am! I’m not ready to be an uncle, how the hell is she ready to be a mom?”

“Whoa, Davey,” Race wrapped his long fingers around Davey’s wrists, pulling his arms back down to his sides. “Take a breath. Did she just find out?”

Davey sighed, eyes cast downward. “Yeah.”

Race softened, bending down slightly to catch Davey’s eyes again. “Then relax. She’s probably _not_ ready, right now. But she’s got time to figure it out, and so do you.” Davey chewed on his lower lip, processing. The ticket printer started again in earnest and Race knew he had to snap Davey out of this soon or they’d end up buried. “Hey, you know _my_ sister is having a baby, right?”

Davey’s head snapped up. “Oh, yeah,” he nodded slowly. “I forgot. When’s she due?”

“Any day now,” Race started working on the orders, relief flooding through him when Davey began to move, too. “And this is her second kid! And she’s only twenty-four. Hardly a difference between twenty-one and twenty-four. Sarah will be fine, Davey. She’s still with her boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah,” Davey agreed, a bit shakily. “Yeah, they’re still together. They’ll probably get married now, I guess.”

“Ah, c’mon Davey,” Race smiled at the customers picking up their orders as he took his station by the counter. “They were gonna get married, anyway.”

“That’s probably true,” The color was coming back into Davey’s face now as he settled into the familiar routine of his job.

“And just think!” Race went on, wiping down the counter. “Pretty soon, you’ll have a little niece or nephew running around. Kids are a ton of fun, man. I take my little nephew places all the time.” Race could see the wheels spinning in Davey’s head, his panicked outlook quickly morphing into excitement.

“You’re right, Race,” Davey told him as he rinsed out the blender. “I’m sorry for freaking out and ruining your moment.”

“My mo-“ Race stuttered, dropping the rag in surprise. Davey chuckled.

“You think I didn’t notice?”

Race honestly hadn’t; Davey had seemed far too distracted to notice much of anything a few minutes ago.

“Who was that, anyway?”

Race sighed in response, not sure how to answer. “Just… a guy,”

“Just a guy.” Davey deadpanned, raising one eyebrow in disbelief.

Race quickly recounted his brief history with Sean – _Spot_ – and Davey listened dutifully. When Race finished, Davey looked confused.

“So, what’s the problem?” He asked.

“Problem?”

“Yeah, I don’t get it, Race. Just ask him out.”

“How? I never got his number.”

“I dunno, go to the hospital?”

“You sound like Jack.”

“How dare you.”

Davey busied himself with checking customers out at the register and starting their drinks, while Race finished them and handed them out. When the rush ended, they headed to the back to clean up Davey’s mess.

“Sit down, Race,” Davey told him, picking up a box. “Rest your foot.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice,” Race grinned, propping his foot up again. It had begun to ache, a bit. He pulled out his phone and opened Instagram; searched _Spot Conlon_ and gasped. There he was. His profile was private, but there was no mistaking the gorgeous face in the picture. Race chewed on his lip.

“What?” Davey’s voice cut through the fog and Race looked up.

“I found him.” He answered softly.

“So, what are you going to do now?”

Race was quiet. He didn’t have an answer for that. Jack would tell him to send Sean a message; be bold. But the butterflies he felt in his stomach just from looking at his profile made him hesitate. Sean wasn’t _just_ _some guy_. Race didn’t want to hook up with him – well, he _did_ , but that wasn’t all he wanted. He wanted to date Sean, cook dinner for him, let Sean take him out to a movie or a play. It was clear now that they were both interested, but Race only knew his own mind.

The twinkling bell alerted them to new customers; break time was over. Davey headed back to the front. Time to make a decision. Race gathered his courage, one fingertip hovering over the screen. The least he could do was follow Sean; at least then, he still made a move. _Kind of._ Davey called for him from the front. He huffed out a breath, tapped the screen – **Request Sent** – and hastily dropped his phone into his pocket as he made his way back to work.

_And now we wait._


	4. Courage Cannot Erase Our Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Good news, here's four. Bad news, I don't have five done just yet so I won't be able to post them together. But it's nearly there. Soon, very soon. Oh, also, this is Spot's POV. Enjoy!

Spot wanted to tell him.

He wanted to tell Race that he had caught his eye the moment he’d looked up from his chart during that first visit. How he couldn’t quite look him in the eye at first because he was too taken with Race’s lean, athletic shoulders. How _“You can call me Racer,”_ had made his stomach flip. How he’d wondered for two straight weeks how someone ended up nicknamed Racetrack; how he worried he might never find out. How he’d noticed Race’s rapid pulse and flushed features, and had chalked it up to nerves. How he’d felt terrible having to subject him to the pain of the liquid stitches; how his breath had hitched in his throat when he noticed the freckles covering those shoulders. How he’d felt a touch of shame, wondering about the ethical implications of having feelings for a patient. How he wanted to look Race up on social media, but again, worried that might make him a bad nurse. He remembered the mixture of excitement and concern he’d felt when Sam had told him the cute boy with the strange nickname was back; the urge he’d had to give Race his phone number but didn’t, because he _knew_ it was inappropriate. How he’d come dangerously close to doing more than that, when he looked at his healed cut during the second visit. The medical necessity of said inspection was debatable; Spot had seen an opportunity to touch those wild curls and he had seized it.

He wanted to tell him about his little brother, Finn, who was graduating from college that upcoming weekend. How proud he was of the man his brother was becoming, even though Race didn’t know him at all. He wanted to tell him the story behind his nickname, even though hardly anyone outside of his family knew it. He wanted to ask him if he was free that evening, or that afternoon, or, hell, even the next morning because he wanted to _tell him_ he was tired of waiting. Tired of pretending not to have a silly crush on a patient, a dancer with luck so bad it was like he lived in a slapstick sketch. If he had only known Race would be at Jacobi’s that Sunday morning, he would have tried to get there earlier. But he didn’t get a chance to tell Race anything, because his clumsy coworker (Spot realized that was a little judgmental, but he was working with limited information) had desperately needed his attention and Race had given it to him. Truthfully, it had made him somehow even more attractive; he was clearly not the type to ignore his friends for some guy. Although, he _hoped_ he was more than _just some guy_ to Racetrack.

He had left the coffee shop the week before a little dejected, but his mood had turned around by the time he’d checked his phone at work – Race had requested to follow him on Instagram. He’d ducked into the bathroom right away to accept the request, not worried in the slightest that it made him look a little desperate. He clicked through to Race’s profile, followed back, and began scrolling through the images as if he hadn’t done so a few times already, ethics be damned. He _wanted_ to message him immediately, ask him out and finally stop feeling like such a coward (and get Sam off his back, _sheesh_ ). But as he looked, he became less and less confident.

He knew it was ridiculous. He knew social media showed a carefully curated glimpse into someone’s life. But he stared in awe as he scrolled through the striking color palettes and dramatic poses of Race’s photos. Of course, there was the occasional cute selfie or goofy video with friends, but Spot couldn’t fight his invasive feelings of inadequacy. Where did he fit into this elegant aesthetic? He wasn’t particularly artistic or graceful, and despite his lifelong proximity, he had never seen a piece of live theatre. He liked sports, and he kept himself in good shape, but his less-than-average height had always been an issue, so he’d never played anything above a high school level.

Spot figured the thing that most defined him was his career choice, and even that had been borne of circumstance. He’d watched his father waste away of a preventable disease at too young an age. He couldn’t understand how the same disease was a mere inconvenience to someone else while it had ravaged his father, someone Spot had always seen as a beacon of strength and toughness. He was grateful – and lucky, he knew – to still have his mom and brother after his dad died when he was fourteen, but he yearned for that lost guidance, ached whenever he thought of the emptiness that could never be filled. Acting out, he’d gotten into a bit of a rough patch in the year after, and he ended up doing community service hours at a hospital in the city. That had changed everything.

Spot had realized that although the systemic issues that contributed to his father’s untimely death were well in place, the people working in those same hospitals were there for one reason: to help. The compassion he saw and felt flowing freely from those nurses and doctors lit a fire in him that had yet to burn out. If he could be the difference in even one person’s life; if he could help even one sick parent or child, it would all be worth it. He’d thrown himself back into his high school classes with a vengeance, and ultimately managed to get a partial scholarship to a school not far from home; like many students, he had to borrow the rest of the money. But he’d become a model student by the time he began college, and he made the Dean’s list every semester until he graduated with honors. He’d found a job rather quickly, and was now, at twenty-four, more prepared for his future than he’d ever imagined possible. But none of his classes had prepared him for a _ridiculous_ crush on this bright-eyed rising star – because although Spot had only seen him at his least graceful, he was sure that Racer was going places. He could tell that from the videos on his Instagram, alone.

The rush of emotions had overwhelmed him, that morning in the bathroom, and he’d succumbed to his insecurities, settling for a simple follow – no message. Over the next couple of days, they had traded likes on their posts. And perhaps it was his imagination, but the photos Race had taken to posting that week were a touch more… just, _more_ than the ones burned into Spot’s memory from the rest of his profile. He had nearly dropped his phone over the balcony of his small patio when he caught a glimpse of Race’s lithe, toned body twisted in a complicated-looking yoga pose. He’d smirked. Two could play that game. He’d quickly stripped off his shirt and dropped down on the patio to get in a few push-ups and sit-ups before snapping more selfies than he’d ever taken at one time. Choosing one to post was an exercise in humility he hadn’t expected; although he was typically pretty confident in his appearance, none of the photos seemed _quite_ good enough. Eventually, he’d sent a few to his straight girl friends and chosen the one with the most enthusiastic responses. He’d leaned against his patio door to steady himself and posted it.

Apparently, those girls knew what they were talking about, because Race’s like came less than five minutes later, followed quickly by a wordless comment featuring the drooling emoji. Spot’s head dropped back against the door, catching his lip in his teeth as his eyes closed. _What I wouldn’t do to get my hands on you…_

Later in the week, Spot made sure to post a photo of Finn and himself, announcing to his followers – more specifically, just the one – how proud he was of his little brother, how excited he was to travel to Pennsylvania for his college graduation that weekend… how he looked forward to being home by Sunday.

He’d had an incredible time in Pennsylvania. The weather was a touch cooler, giving him a welcome respite from the oppressive heat of the city. Finn had enjoyed showing Spot and their mother around the campus and the small town he’d made his home. They’d gone hiking, canoeing, swimming in lakes; Finn had showed them his favorite mom and pop stores and restaurants. Spot may have even wiped away a tear as his little brother, reformed troublemaker himself, walked across the stage to collect his diploma. He was more active on Instagram over those few days than he had been, well, ever. But the thrill he felt whenever Race liked or commented chased away any shame he may have otherwise experienced. Finn and his mother noticed, naturally, and they teased him until Spot broke down and told them the entire Racetrack Saga. He’d showed them Race’s profile. His mother let out a low whistle at some of the more revealing photos; Spot could feel his ears burning.

“Ain’t he pretty?” He couldn’t help asking, sneaking a peek at his family.

“Very,” his mother had agreed, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

As much as he would always cherish that trip, Spot was more than ready to get home Saturday evening.

That Sunday had begun like any other: up early, dressed for work as he stopped in Jacobi’s for a pick-me-up – disappointed not to see a mop of blonde curls behind the counter – and clocking in right on time. Grateful for a peaceful beginning to the day, Spot chatted amicably with Sam about his weekend for a few minutes before she revealed her true intentions.

“And how are things with, whatsit, Racecar?”

Spot choked on his coffee. “What?” He sputtered, coughing.

“That cute dancer who was here before,” Sam explained, rolling her eyes. She looked bored. “Don’t even try to act like you don’t know who I mean. I ran and grabbed you as quick as I could when he came back. Figured you’d at least have gone out by now.”

“Racetrack,” Spot finally managed, wiping at his eyes. “Race.”

“Weird name.”

“Yep,” Spot agreed in hopes of switching topics. No such luck, he realized, as Sam waited expectantly for an answer. He sighed, looking away from her. “ _Things_ aren’t really going, at all.”

Sam, who had been tapping out a text on her phone, calmly stopped and set her phone down. She laced her fingers together, resting them on her crossed leg, and fixed him with a knowing look. She said nothing; just waited for him to continue. After a moment of unbearable silence, Spot threw his hands up and began to pace around the small nurse station.

“I mean, we follow each other on Instagram?” He offered. Sam nodded but remained silent. Spot huffed. “And there has been some… flirting…”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, turning away from her to hide the heat curling up the back of his neck. “Just comments, no messages or anything.”

“So you haven’t asked him out.”

“No,” he answered, a bit defensively as he turned back to face her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. “But why does it have to be me? Why do _I_ have to be the one doing the asking?”

Sam shrugged. “No one said you do. But it does seem like there’s a bit of a…” she trailed off, searching for the right word. “Courage issue with you two.” She finished.

Spot couldn’t help thinking _courage_ was a nicer way of calling them both chickens. And she wasn’t wrong; as things stood between him and Race, they were flirty acquaintances. Spot wanted more, and he was fairly sure Race did too. So why couldn’t he just take the leap? He pushed off the wall with a frustrated noise, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna… go check on…” he grumbled as he stalked away from his friend.

He made a beeline for his current favorite patient’s room, noted she was sleeping and vowed to come back later. The rest of the morning passed in a blur, the emergency room a touch more active than usual; Spot was grateful for the distraction. He had just wheeled a discharged patient to the door and was making his way down the hall on the main floor near the cafeteria when he nearly crashed into a familiar lanky figure leaving the gift shop. 

_Racer._

He stopped dead, shock coursing through his limbs like an electric current. Race hadn’t seen him yet, phone in one hand and a vase of flowers in the other. He was looking intently at his screen, squinting in concentration. He was dressed in athletic pants with stripes down the sides and a form-fitting tee; the material looked soft. He was also sans crutches, Spot noticed happily. Amazing how many things he could notice about a person in a split second. He decided to translate the surge of adrenaline he felt into courage – _thanks, Sam –_ and he stepped in front of Race.

“Y’know, these are beautiful,” He relished the way Race’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice, jaw dropping just slightly in surprise, blue eyes wide. “But I’m really more of a candy guy, myself.”

_Whew. That was bold._ He couldn’t help himself; what other reason could Race _possibly_ have for being at the hospital, the day he knew Spot would be back from Pennsylvania, carrying flowers? It was too much of a coincidence to be one, he was _sure_. He was even more sure as he watched Race absorb the intent behind his words and that adorable flush spread across his cheekbones. Race dropped his phone back into his pocket as he met Spot’s eyes.

“Right, of course. Sweet tooth,” He grinned. “I didn’t know you were back.” Spot was pleased to notice he sounded a little out of breath.

“Yeah, got home last night.” Spot shifted his weight, fighting the urge to fiddle his hands nervously.

“Well, happy as I am to see you, _Spot_ ,” Race went on, teasingly. Spot wondered if he would always put that emphasis on his nickname, now that he knew it. “These are actually for my sister.”

_Oh. OH._

“Oh?” It was all he could think to say; what a fool he had made of himself. He would have bet money the odds were in his favor, this time.

“Yeah,” Race explained, flush deepening. “She, uh, she just had a baby. I’m actually on my way to meet my new niece or nephew.” Race caught his lip in his teeth, momentarily distracting Spot. He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t.

“A surprise, huh?” Spot was just trying to keep the focus on the mystery baby and not his own mortifying actions. “What do ya think?”

“I dunno, but she already has a little boy so I think they’re hoping for a girl. Y’know, balance, and all that.”

“Sure,” Spot scratched the back of his neck, making a show of looking at his watch when he brought his hand back down. “Oh, shit, I gotta run,”

“Yeah, yeah of course,” Race agreed quickly. “I hafta, y’know…” he trailed off, jerking his head in the direction of the elevators.

“Hey, congrats,” Spot paused. “And tell her I said congratulations, too.” He flashed Race a weak smile, feeling like a bigger idiot by the second. Then he turned on his heel and walked as quickly as he could back to the nurse station. Sam, ever observant, gave him a _look_ that he pointedly ignored.

“I’m going to lunch.” He snapped before turning and leaving, heading back toward the cafeteria in a bit of a daze. He stood at the end of the line at the sandwich shop, trying to convince himself that the twisting he felt in his stomach was actually hunger.

_Way to go, Conlon._


	5. Courage Is When We Face Our Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, y'all! Hopefully this makes up for the awkwardness in the last chapter. Enjoy!

Every slow, careful step Race took away from the gift shop felt wrong.

Not because of his ankle; Race hadn’t used his crutches for a while. He’d been doing stretches and exercises as he gained the strength back. He still wore the brace, but for the most part, he was walking normally. But his gait was slow, trancelike after the surprise meeting. He could practically hear Jack screaming in his head to go back, to talk to him, sort this all out. He’d been so shocked to see Spot – he was just _Spot_ , now – at the hospital that he just froze. And he hadn’t been lying, he _was_ happy to see him, but he had been _so_ _sure_ he was supposed to come home later that day. His face screwed up, trying to remember, as he punched the button in the elevator for the maternity floor.

He’d spent more time that week staring at Spot’s Instagram profile than he cared to admit, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember the captions. Although, to be fair, he had spent _far_ more time studying the photos. _God, those photos…_ The walls of the elevator faded from view as he recalled the way the sun shone on Spot’s tanned skin, shadows accentuating the planes of his chest, the dips in his collarbone. He wanted to kick himself as he realized he probably blew his chance to ever see those sights up close and not from hundreds of miles away on a tiny screen. He shook his head slightly to clear it as the elevator dinged. He checked his phone again, making sure he had the right room number, and made his way there in a bit of a haze, his eyes not quite focused on anything actually in front of him. He triple-checked the room number before knocking. He heard his older sister’s quiet answer, and he pushed open the door.

The scene before him could only be described as saccharine: his sister, cradling her newest child with a gentle embrace, his brother-in-law gazing at his wife with such awe and admiration. Race’s brain came to a screeching halt and, so did his feet. He was looking a bit past them now, toward the sunny window; seeing only one thing in his mind’s eye.

Sean. _Spot._

He wanted that. Not the marriage and the kids – not yet, anyway, someday – but the devotion, the loving gazes, the sickly-sweet gestures and undivided attention that came with a real, adult relationship. He couldn’t recall feeling this way before, but then, he couldn’t remember a time when he’d been this distracted for _weeks_ , the same handsome face haunting his dreams and daydreams alike. He knew it was more than a crush, more than a series of comments on some silly social media platform. He knew what he wanted, now. The ball was in his court; what was it his mother had always told him? Seize the day?

Distantly, he heard his sister’s voice.

“Tony? … Hellooo, Tony? Are you okay?”

“Hmm?” he responded absently, eyes still fixed, unseeing, on the window. He blinked hard a few times, spared his sister a glance, and set the vase down next to another. “Yeah,” he answered, this time with more conviction. “I’m fine. Y’know what, I forgot… something.” He nodded as he spoke, nerves and determination fighting for dominance somewhere in his stomach. “Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

He rushed out of the room, turned on a dime, and rushed back in, combing through the various bouquets on the table. Ignoring his sister’s sounds of protest, he found what he was looking for, winked at her, and hurried out. “I’ll buy you another!” He called over his shoulder as the door swung closed behind him.

He walked as quickly as he could manage to the emergency room department, poking his head into nurse station after nurse station until he finally found a familiar face.

“Sam!” He called. Sam turned at the sound, surprise melting to satisfaction as she recognized him – he didn’t have room in his brain to decipher that, just now. He hurried to her, a touch out of breath; he blamed the nerves. “Sam, where’s Spot?”

“Oh, he’s at lunch,” She answered, motioning toward the main hall. “Try the cafeteria, honey.”

“Thank you!” He called as he spun in the direction of the cafeteria, his heart pounding as he walked. He silently thanked the hospital’s architect for the simplistic design as he reached the cafeteria a moment later, scanning the food stations quickly. Nothing. Panic rising in his chest, he turned toward the cluster of square tables and squinted, eyes roaming until…

_Gulp._

Spot sat alone, his attention fixed on his phone screen as he idly chewed what looked to be a turkey sub. Race fought the urge to run away. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, focusing on the motion as he pushed out the breath, willing his body to cooperate.

He crossed the room quickly, throwing himself into the seat across from Spot with no announcement. Spot jumped a little, his sub dropping unceremoniously to the table in his surprise. He was quiet, his face carefully controlled as he adjusted to Race’s sudden appearance.

“Hey, Racer,” Spot’s voice was soft, a bit guarded. _Here we go._

“I like you.” Race blurted. Spot’s eyebrows shot up and he turned his phone upside down on the table, giving Race his full attention.

“Come again?”

“I like you,” Race huffed, already flushed _._ A smile began to form on Spot’s face, and he opened his mouth, but Race cut him off. “Wait a minute, lemme talk.” Spot leaned back slightly, showing his hands in an _I surrender_ motion. Race took one more stabilizing breath and continued. “I’ve liked you since the first moment I saw you. I know, that’s cliché and stupid ‘cause I didn’t even know you but it’s true. And when I like someone, I have no problem letting them know but with you… with you, it’s different, and I couldn’t figure out why.” He paused, relishing the sight of Spot hanging on his every word. “But I’ve got it, now.”

“Do tell.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Race scolded, no heat behind his words as he flashed a grin. Spot made a motion as though he were zipping his lips, and Race went on. “Y’know, I’ve gone most of my life not giving one single shit what other people think of me. I was the only boy in a lot of my dance classes growing up and, let’s just say the other kids at school didn’t care too much for me practicing at recess. ‘Specially when all the girls wanted to hang out with me because of it. Never mind that I didn’t _want_ any of the girls; logic was never their strong suit.” _Don’t just run your mouth, make some sense!_ Imaginary Jack made another unwelcome appearance in his head and Race was annoyed to realize he was right. He forced himself to look up. “My point is, it’s been a long time since I cared what anyone else thought of me. Kinda had to be that way, y’know? But you? Spot…” He trailed off, heaving a sigh. “You, I care about.”

“You care?”

“Yes. I care what you think of me. I care if you think I’m clumsy, I care if you think that I hurt myself on purpose just for a chance to see you again – I didn’t, by the way – I _care_ if you think I’m funny, or cute, or smart-“

“I do – “

Race blushed at that but soldiered on. “I _want_ to know the story behind your weird nickname-“

“You’re one to talk,” Spot smirked, pushing his food aside and leaning forward on his elbows, shortening the distance between them.

Now that he’d begun, Race was finding it difficult to stop talking. “I think it’s amazing that you’re this badass nurse who goes above and beyond for his patients, and you do this day in and day out and still manage to find time to look like _that_ and honestly, just how?” Race didn’t give him a chance to reply as he went on. “And I didn’t make a move ‘cause I was fuckin’ scared. I was scared that I’d read into this, that I’d invented a situation that wasn’t real because I just _couldn’t_ get you out of my head and I _needed_ it to be real,” he paused, panting slightly. Spot’s hand darted across the table, catching Race’s fingers; Race drew courage from the motion and raised his eyes, daring to make contact.

“But you know what’s worse?”

“What’s that?”

“Not trying,” Race held Spot’s gaze, returning the gentle pressure on his fingers. His left hand was still hidden below the table. “If I don’t try, I’ll always wonder if there was something there, if we could have been _more_. And, Spotty,” Race didn’t miss Spot’s quiet intake of breath as he absorbed the new variation of his name. “I think we can.” With that, Race pulled out his left hand and held out a package of Reese’s cups, offering it to Spot as if it were a single red rose. 

“So, what do you say, Spot? Can I take you out on a date?”

Spot said nothing; he merely plucked the candy from Race’s grasp and laid it on the table. Then he closed the gap between them, fingertips lightly brushing Race’s jaw and making him shiver. He pressed his warm lips against Race’s with gentle yet firm pressure. Race’s eyes fluttered closed, his head swimming as he tried to process what was happening. Too soon, Spot pulled back, just slightly. They were still nose to nose across the table; he could feel Spot’s soft breath. Race was quiet for a beat.

“So,” he said, voice shaking. “Is that a yes?”

Spot laughed at that, rolling his eyes. “Yes, you idiot.” Race couldn’t even pretend to be offended as a delighted grin spread across his face, too relieved to care if he looked stupid. They stayed like that another moment, hands clasped, eyes locked, oblivious to the goings-on of the cafeteria around them, until the incessant buzzing of Race’s phone startled him. He reluctantly pulled a hand away to fish his phone from his pocket.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, scrolling through several concerned texts from his sister. He ran his other hand distractedly through his hair, looking sheepishly up at Spot. “I have to go, my sister is kinda worried.”

“Oh, do you have a niece or nephew?”

“I, uh, sorta forgot to find out,” Race laughed nervously, tapping out a quick response and standing up, dropping his phone back into his pocket. “I only just made it to her room before I left to find you.” Race noticed the flush on Spot’s face and reveled in it; _he_ had done that. Spot stood, gathering his trash.

“I’ll walk you to the elevators.” He picked up the Reese’s cup and dropped it into the pocket on his scrub top. Race couldn’t stop grinning as he fell into step beside Spot as they walked to the hallway of elevators, sneaking sideways glances at him. _Spotty._ They lingered, the air between them buzzing. Neither seemed to want to leave as they stood slightly off to the side of the elevator doors.

“So… I’ll call you,” Race said, breathlessly.

“I’ll pick up.” Spot smirked, eyes twinkling again.

Race turned away, stopped, and turned back around. Spot hadn’t moved.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“How you got the name Spot.”

“Oh,” Spot laughed the word, shaking his head. “It’s stupid.”

“So’s mine.”

“That’s true,” Spot agreed, nudging Race playfully. “Alright. When my little brother was learning how to talk, he developed a habit of calling people by their features. As you can imagine, that was _super_ embarrassing for my mom, when he’d point people out in the store or somethin’. ‘ _Fat!’ ‘Short!’_ ” He paused, chuckling. Race listened with rapt attention. “Anyway, back then, my freckles were a lot more… prominent. Finn’d just learned that the marks on the dog were called spots so, naturally, he concluded that I also had spots. My mom thought it was the cutest thing.” He shrugged his shoulders, smiling. “’Course, I don’t remember any of it, but it just… stuck.”

Race nodded, drinking in the sight before him. “You’re right,” he teased softly, a grin forming. “That is stupid.” Spot pushed his shoulder, laughing.

  
“Go, see your sister, meet your new niece or nephew.”

“I’ll let ya know which,”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The elevator opened behind Race and he grudgingly entered, not looking away until the doors closed. He leaned his head back against the wall, grinning wildly and gripping the hand rail. _I have a date with Spot Conlon._ No sooner had he completed the thought when the doors sprang apart again and Spot marched into the elevator with a purpose.

“What are you…” Race’s heartrate jumped significantly as Spot walked directly at him, not stopping until they were nearly touching, his broad chest lightly brushing against Race’s own. If he hadn’t made a date with the man a moment earlier, he would have been scared shitless. Spot may be short, but he was intimidating. _And hot as hell…_

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move as he watched Spot reach confidently _into his pants pocket oh my GOD_ and pull out Race’s phone. Spot didn’t back up, didn’t give Race a chance to breathe as he typed in a number, held the phone to his ear, hung up. Race was overwhelmed by his presence as he watched Spot tap the screen a few more times and return the phone to Race’s pocket, reaching in a touch further than was strictly necessary.

“…doing?” Race finished, voice high as he finally began to breathe again. Spot lifted his chin.

“Couldn’t let you get away without my phone number _again._ ”

Race huffed a small laugh, watching as Spot leaned over to press the button. He thanked the gods that the maternity ward was all the way on the fifth floor (and that they were still, somehow, alone in the elevator). Race sucked in a harsh breath when he felt Spot’s fingers trail lightly down his arms and wrap around his wrists, two fingers pressed expertly into his pulse points. Spot smirked as Race blushed again.

“Yeah,” Race acknowledged, his voice barely above a whisper. “Someday, my heart will calm down around you.”

“I hope it never does,” Spot breathed back, moving forward onto the balls of his feet to capture Race’s lips again, with more urgency this time. Blood pounded in Race’s ears but he didn’t care. Spot was filling every one of his senses and it was maddening. One of Spot’s hands gripped Race’s hip as he pinned him to the wall and the other slid into his curls at the back, tugging lightly and causing Race to gasp against his lips. Spot made a small noise in response and Race’s stomach flipped pleasantly; he had all but forgotten where he was when the elevator dinged, allowing them half a second to pull apart, to come back to reality. His pulse was still racing and he wasn’t sure he’d ever catch his breath, but _holy shit_ was it worth it.

The doors began to close; Spot stopped them with the press of a button. Dazed, Race began to back out of the elevator, unwilling to take his eyes off Spot for even a second. Spot smirked back, giving him a small wave.

“See ya, Racer,”

Race didn’t trust his voice so he waved back, bringing his fingers to graze his lips as the doors closed; they were still tingling. He stood in the middle of the hall and yanked his phone from his pocket, ignoring the annoyed noises of passersby as they maneuvered around him. As quickly as his shaking fingers would allow, he typed out a text message to his newest contact.

**Tonight?**

He stared at the screen for less than a minute before he saw typing ellipsis, and a moment later his face split into a wide smile.

**Can’t wait.**

He headed toward his sister’s room with a new spring in his step, his mind already filling with possibilities. _Tonight._ He supposed Jack would officially be off of dish duty now – and he would shamelessly claim credit for Race having met Spot in the first place – but Race decided that was a small price to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! I really hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's actually been a long time since I finished a piece of writing, so I'm proud of this. I thought this would get Sprace out of my system, but I may have just caught the bug instead, oof. 🙈 Thanks so much for reading! 💕  
> Oh, also, you'll notice I never revealed whether the baby was a boy or a girl so 🤷🏻 dealer's choice!  
> Edit as of 7/19: issa boy 👶 (see the next work in this series for more)


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